


Sonny & Em

by BetterLeftUnsaid



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Beards (Facial Hair), Beer, Deployment, F/M, Love Letters, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Thighs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 00:43:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetterLeftUnsaid/pseuds/BetterLeftUnsaid
Summary: What if Sonny wasn't only into strippers and Davis and girls whose names end in "i"?





	1. Beard

He was a surprised as anyone that this was the view that got him hard when he was tired as a dog – and the image that had lulled him to sleep when Clay was snoring in the bunk above him.

He thought that if he died right now, if right now was his time, he’d go happy, smothered in this woman’s thighs, her riding his tongue, him looking up at her soft belly, soft tits, and wild, curly hair, hands braced against the wall above his bed. Em cursed loud, loud enough for the neighbors to complain tomorrow about “how loud his music was last night,” but if her saying “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, yes, Sonny, fuck, yes,” was the only sound he heard for the rest of his life, the awkward conversation with the neighbor lady would be worth it.

His forearms were wrapped around her thighs – her big, beautiful, muscular thighs – his hands pulling her down harder onto his mouth. They had been together enough for him to know that there was a sweet spot, right before she came, when the muscles in her inner thighs would tighten, she would clench down on him, squeezing his face between her legs for just a few seconds, grinding down on his mouth so hard that his nose would be buried in her soft bush for a second, too, and he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

That was the sweet spot. And then she would move again as she came, rocking back and forth, giving him air just as he started to see stars.

The first time she came like that, hard and all over his mouth and chin, she had scooted down to straddle his broad chest, wiping half-heartedly at his wet beard, gasping for air, half-laughing, and looking at him a little bashful, but with a twinkle in her eye.

It was the same look she had had the first time she asked him to spank her. He usually didn’t hit women in bed unless they’d talked about it first, and he was usually the one to bring it up. She had asked, and he had growled and smacked her broad, full ass with gusto, and he liked how hard she came around his dick. He asked her later if anyone had ever said “no” when she asked them to spank her. She had shrugged over the top of her coffee mug and said plainly, “If someone won’t hit me when I ask ‘em to, I usually don’t want to fuck ‘em again.” God, he liked that.

He didn’t know for a while how much she liked riding his face. He knew she liked it, of course – she was vocal in her feedback, complimentary and corrective – but she had tucked a letter into his pocket one time when he told her he wasn’t going to be around for a couple of weeks, a handwritten letter she had apparently kept in her backpack for such an occasion.

It didn’t have his name on it or hers either, but she wrote in devastating detail how much she liked sitting on his face, especially the combination of his tongue and his beard, his tongue circling her clit and his bearded chin giving her hole the friction she wanted. Clay must’ve wondered why he was so quiet – he always said Sonny was only quiet when he was sleeping.

She was a good writer, decisive and a little defiant. He had the whole three pages just about memorized after two weeks, and when they got back, he texted her to tell her he was coming over, was half hard by the time he got off his bike up to her doorstep, leaning on the doorframe holding the letter when she opened it. 

She blushed prettily and smiled broadly and reached out for the scruff of his beard, pulling him towards her by his chin, shutting the door behind him, and whispering low in his ear another couple of things she liked doing with him.


	2. Give freely and take freely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonny's back from assignment, Em's tired from work - burritos and whiskey and Sonny collecting his thoughts.

Tonight they were both tired. He had had a long couple of days and had come home a little worse for wear. They didn’t always have sex right when he got home, which he liked but would never admit to the guys that he liked. Bravo always assumed that Sonny immediately made a beeline to wet his whistle and his dick when they got home. And he would never have admitted it to his younger self, when he was absurdly cocky. He knew he was still absurdly cocky now, still, but in a different way. Less bluster now, more warm confidence, hardened like the swirls on a piece of polished walnut. Smoother, stronger character.

 

So when he was finally out in the parking lot, he texted her that he was home but that he was tired but he also wanted to see her. She texted back almost immediately that she desperately wanted to fuck him but also hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was too tired to stand up straight and also needed a shower.

 

_Meet you at mine, I’ll bring dinner, I need a shower, too._

 

He saw her truck in the guest spot at his place before he saw her, sitting on the front step, leaning back with her face to the late afternoon sun, eyes closed. She wore work boots and cutoff shorts and a tatty work shirt, and as he pulled in and cut the engine, she slowly tilted her face down and smiled languidly at him. He took off his helmet and leaned over his handlebars, just staring at her, grinning back. “Come here now,” she called to him, throwing out a hand to him, and he obliged, kicking down the stand and locking the bike.

 

She sat until he reached her, then flung out her hands so he could pull her up. “Mmm. You smell like beer,” he mumbled appreciatively into her neck, when she pulled him in with a sigh.

 

“That’s because I’ve been brewing all day, you doof, and I’m sticky as fuck, and I think there’s even beer in my hair, and I hope you brought food, and I want your beefy fucking body, but I also want to take off my boots and be in the shower for eleven years, so where are your keys and how are you?” She tended to string together separate thoughts like this, especially right when she saw him, and he liked it, like she couldn’t wait to tell him everything she hadn’t been able to tell him since she’d seen him last.

 

As he let them inside, he told her his truths: “I got burritos in my pack and a shower sounds fan-fucking-tastic, and I also gotta ice my knees for a while, which I acknowledge is unbearably sexy, and also swallow a shit-ton of Advil and those might go down easier with whiskey. Also, I have a new lil thing on my arm, but it’s fine, don’t freak out.”

 

She usually didn’t freak out, which he liked, too.

 

Except that he knew part of the reason she didn’t freak out is that she didn’t have all her eggs in the Sonny basket. They’d never talked about it – he didn’t really want to – but he was pretty sure she knew that if she wasn’t available, he’d go knocking elsewhere. And he was pretty sure she knew he knew that she didn’t sit ‘round lonely and pining when he was away.

 

He never asked her to, and he generally wasn’t a jealous type of guy – until he really, really was. But they weren’t there yet, and he appreciated that she kept some of the mystery going by telling him flat out if she wasn’t available when he wanted her, even if she hadn’t seen him since 3am more than a week ago, when his phone went off and he woke her up cussing because he couldn’t find one of his socks in the dark and had just tripped over a book she had left on the floor.

 

Eight days, a couple of light emails, and when he got home, she told him she had friends in town and would see him tomorrow. He appreciated that and had gone to meet up with Clay and had gotten pretty wasted and some girl had blown him in the back of her car, and he _might_ have drunk texted Em to tell her she gave great blow jobs, to which she had replied “Damn fucking straight, except I give _excellent_ blow jobs, Tex, and see you tomorrow like I promised.”

 

But lately he had to admit that her being around right when he got home was pretty nice, especially when he was a bit banged up and probably in no fit state to pull fresh pussy, not unless he wanted to pay for it, which he tried hard not to do.

 

So when she kicked off her boots and went digging into his pack for burritos, he didn’t mind, except that she started eating chips hungrily before he could even get to the good salsa in the fridge. He came up behind her to grab a handful before she crammed the entirety of the little bag in her mouth, reaching one hand around her waist, which made her lean back into him, humming contentedly through a mouthful of chips. After they had each pounded a burrito hunched over the kitchen counter, winking at each other, mouths too busy to talk – and he had stashed a third burrito into the fridge for breakfast – she downed a glass of water from the sink and turned to him with a serious face. “Shower, now.”

 

He liked being naked with her. He liked how she absentmindedly traced the lines of his tattoos while she talked to him. He liked watching her move, the lines of her muscles flexing as she reached across him in the shower for the shampoo or when she toweled off her hair or as she struggled out of a sweaty sports bra when she met him directly after work. “Are you going to watch or are you going to help?” she frowned at him from the tangled fabric once when she caught him looking. “Watch. Obviously.” She shook her head furiously at him and when she finally got free, she threw that bra right in his face while he laughed.

 

Sonny valued his own physicality. He knew that’s how the guys on Bravo team saw him, as the muscle, the brawn, the body and blood. He got tapped for jobs that required agility and body awareness and boldness and brutality, and while nobody ever really said it, they called upon him for work that required physical concentration and finesse and spatial awareness. He had that as a kid, too, the running back who could read the field, find the holes, magically make his body move in ways that eluded tackle and squeezed through impossibly small gaps in the action. One coach had said that he “knew how to handle himself,” and he liked that phrase, like his body was a tool that he could feel and sense and handle and manipulate according to the situation.

 

So, he liked how much she liked all of him, hat to spurs, that she would kiss his scars tenderly and rake her fingernails down his biceps, across his pits, dangerously close to the mysteriously sensitive spots right under his pecs. He liked when she ran her hands over his back or licked down his abs on her way to his dick.

 

Apparently his beefy quads got her as hot as hers did him – she would grind down hard on one of his thighs, humping like they were in high school, gripping and squeezing his hard dick in one hand while she came, leaving a slick trail that she scooted down and licked up before swallowing his cock in her hot mouth. Damn, he liked that. He liked that she used his body to make herself feel good, like it was one more thing his body could do.

 

Which was one of the reasons he and Davis hit that dead end hard. Obviously, the work situation and her officer training and the UCMJ and all that had a hand, but he didn’t like that she believed him when he joked “Sonny don’t dance.” Of course he danced. She had witnessed his body do extraordinary things in the field, she had seen him perform countless times, using his physical gifts to do tough, brutal work in the pursuit of countless objectives.

 

His body did what his mind told it to do, effortlessly. Why would she think that’d be any different with a soundtrack? His ma always said that he could two-step a week after he could walk, and while he and his ma shared a gift for telling tall tales, he was pretty sure she wasn’t far off.

 

And yeah, he’d been a little offended that Davis didn’t think he could dance. Like he was all blunt force with no finesse. Pissed him off.

 

Did she think that dancing wasn’t manly? He was a fucking elite operator, he didn’t have shit to prove to anybody. And it turned out Davis was wound up tighter than a rusty spring. She was damn brainy, great instincts, good sense of humor, beautiful eyes, but she was a machine designed for forward motion, like a bullet train that never deviated from its track. No give and take, no call and response. The few times they’d actually slept together, she fucked like she had somewhere else to be.

 

If Davis was a bullet train, Em was like his motorcycle – agility and purring poetry, made to weave in and out of traffic, rumbling and organic and alive. Responsive. She would meander and explore and kiss and demand and give freely and take freely, too.

 

He stuffed the last of the chips into his mouth, watching her drop a trail of clothes into his bedroom, shimmying out of her drawers as she cranked up the shower hot. _Give freely and take freely_ , he thought, as he grabbed the half-full bottle of whiskey from the kitchen shelf and followed her.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Longtime reader, first time writer (here anyway). I have another - longer - chapter in my back pocket if ya'll like this one.


End file.
